


Revisiting Roots

by Riona, salanaland, VampireBadger



Series: Visitorverse [18]
Category: Assassin's Creed
Genre: F/M, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-09
Updated: 2017-02-07
Packaged: 2018-09-07 12:45:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,515
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8801347
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Riona/pseuds/Riona, https://archiveofourown.org/users/salanaland/pseuds/salanaland, https://archiveofourown.org/users/VampireBadger/pseuds/VampireBadger
Summary: As the Visitorverse begins to come to a close, it's time to remember where it began. A collection of scenes in the style of the original Visitors, set before Homecoming, when this 'verse was just about eight people bonded together.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> It’s been a long and ridiculous and thoroughly enjoyable journey, but all journeys must reach their end. We’ve been thinking for a while about how to bring this ’verse to a close, and you’ll soon be getting a final story, courtesy of the incomparable VampireBadger, i.e. the only one of us who’s actually capable of writing long things.
> 
> But there are probably people who won’t be able to read that final story, because they’ve drifted away at some point and haven’t been following the more recent plot developments. We didn’t want to exclude those people from the ending of the Visitorverse; you’ve been a part of this journey as well! So that’s the purpose of this fic: one final set of short stories set back at the beginning, before _Homecoming_ , before B-team, when this ’verse was just about eight Assassins and Templars with a permanent, inexplicable bond.

Desmond wakes to the vague sense that something’s wrong. Not that that’s new. He’s been kidnapped and shoved repeatedly into a hallucination-inducing machine; it’d be weird if things _didn’t_ feel wrong.

But... something’s different. There’s a breeze. A warm breeze on his bare skin, and his cell in the Abstergo building isn’t that well ventilated. And the light coming through his eyelids seems like sunlight, not the cold artificial lighting of Abstergo.

And he definitely shouldn’t be able to hear merchants loudly advertising their wares.

He opens his eyes.

He’s on a roof in Jerusalem.

Desmond jerks to his feet and looks around for – for something to cover his nudity, a curtain, _something_.

His heart nearly stops when he sees a stranger running across the rooftops nearby – fuck, someone’s here to _see_ him – and then he remembers that this isn’t real, this is a hallucination. And, even in his hallucinations, most people don’t seem to see him. The only one who can is Alta...

Altaïr.

Who is pursuing the other man from roof to roof.

For an instant Altaïr’s eyes meet Desmond’s. Desmond just stands there, frozen, very aware of how naked he is. Altaïr’s eyes widen.

And then Altaïr misses his next jump and plunges out of sight.

Shit. Shit! Did Desmond just break his own ancestor’s neck? _It’s not real, calm down, it’s not –_

But Desmond’s barely taken two steps towards the edge before Altaïr’s hauling himself up over it again; he must have managed to catch something as he fell.

Altaïr’s apparent target has managed to put some distance between them, though. It looked before Altaïr’s slip as if the chase would be over soon, but it ends up taking them across most of Jerusalem. Which means that Desmond gets dragged over most of Jerusalem by the weird limit his mind has put on the distance he can be from Altaïr. Nude. It’s humiliating.

Eventually, Altaïr manages to slam his target to the ground and force a blade through his throat. He pauses for a moment over the body. Desmond hopes he’s been forgotten.

Apparently not. Altaïr wheels and stalks back toward him, breathing hard. “What are you _doing_ here?”

Desmond tries desperately to cover himself with his hands. “I’m not here.” It’s the only thing he can think of to say.

Altaïr regards him narrowly for a moment (Desmond squirms). “How fortunate for you. If you _had_ been here, your life would no doubt have been in danger.”

“I’m an innocent,” Desmond says, quickly.

“You are guilty of impeding the Brotherhood’s work,” Altaïr says. “ _Innocent_ may be interpreted in many ways.” His unwavering glare is making Desmond seriously uncomfortable. “There was always going to be blood spilled on these streets today. If it had not been my target’s, it would have been yours. Think on that the next time you plan to appear unclothed before me.”

It wasn’t exactly _planned_ , but Desmond has a feeling it’s not a great idea to argue. He holds up his hands. Well, he holds up one of his hands, because the other is still busy shielding him from public exposure. “Understood.”

-

Shay watches proudly as the builders level the stones that make up the wall of the church he’s rebuilding. The glassmakers are taking measurements for the windows, and he’s got an appointment this afternoon with the best cabinet-maker within a hundred miles, to discuss replacing all the battered woodwork inside. Local seamstresses are already embroidering kneeling cushions and wall hangings.

Not bad for a man who’s destroyed a whole city and killed thousands of people.

“It’s very nice.” Ezio’s voice comes from behind him, and Shay turns to see the legendary Assassin scrutinizing the rebuilding effort. Shay’s still not sure how he feels about Assassins in general – he’s pretty sure that the men he’s working with now oppose them – but Ezio seems an all right sort. And even if he’s not, Shay’s stuck with him as a visitor.

“It’s the least I can do,” Shay tells him, “after everything I’ve done, all the destruction I’ve caused. It’s nice to rebuild. And the people were hurting for lack of it. They’d no place to gather, nowhere to hold weddings, no sense of community.”

“It’s a good and noble effort,” Ezio agrees. “How much money are you making from it?”

This catches Shay off guard. “Money?”

“Yes, you know, like I make money from the Pantheon?”

“I’ve never understood how you manage that,” Shay admits.

“Oh, you know,” Ezio waves that away. “Tourists and the like. Nothing like as much as owning a shop or a bank, but some.”

“I don’t _think_ I get any money from it,” Shay tells him dubiously. “I’m doing it to help the people.”

“And if you make a lot of money, you can help a lot of people,” Ezio reasons.

Shay shakes his head and turns away. “Assassins,” he mutters.

-

Connor so rarely visits Desmond outside. It’s a nice change, to see him sitting on a log and watching squirrels. And for once, Desmond looks peaceful, so Connor simply sits beside him for some time. But it’s been weighing on Connor’s mind ever since he talked to his grandmother, so he asks, “Did my people ever come back here?”

Desmond looks so sorrowfully at Connor that he _knows_ before his descendant even says anything. “No. Your people – they have reservations, now, in the US and Canada.”

“What are reservations? What is Canada? That word means ‘village’, you know...”

Desmond laughs, once. “I know. A whole country, called a village. And a reservation... when the government forced your people to move again and again, they crowded them onto a tiny piece of land. And all the other native peoples, they did the same to them.”

“Oh,” Connor says numbly.

“They’re really... they’re really poor, they don’t have enough land to live well in traditional ways or enough money to live well in modern ways,” Desmond tries to explain. “And people, the government, keep trying to take their land back from them.” Desmond kicks his feet, uncomfortably.

“They took almost all our land and now they want the last little bit?” Connor’s voice is filled with a quiet fury.

“Yeah,” Desmond sighs. “Your people, they stand up to the government, though. Like this one time someone wanted to build a golf course? Everyone was protesting. And the Canadian government, they got so crazy about it, they stabbed a teenage girl right in front of her little sister.” He shakes his head. “I didn’t even know about it until I looked stuff up.”

Connor stares at the ground. “So my people stay vulnerable to the colonists, even in your time.”

“Yeah.” Desmond clears his throat. “But at least they’re still around. They still speak your language, they still celebrate your ceremonies.”

“We have lost our _home_ ,” Connor murmurs, and buries his face in his hands. After a minute, he feels Desmond’s awkward hand on his shoulder.

-

Ezio has found he prefers to visit when his visitors are in bed. There’s always the slim chance of something good coming of it, and at the least, it’s fun to watch some of them, like Haytham or Connor, flail in dismay.

This time it’s Edward, who is occasionally up for making proper use of the bed. Even more exciting, he has a bedmate already, a lovely red-haired woman.

Edward’s eyes pop open as he registers the extra weight in the bed.

“Did you think this one was a man, too?” Ezio asks brightly.

Edward’s eyes fill with tears, and Ezio frowns and hugs him. “My apologies, I’ve clearly struck a nerve.”

“It’s all right, Ezio,” Edward lies. The woman stirs.

“One of your invisible people?” she asks sleepily.

“Aye,” Edward tells her. “Anne, this is Ezio. Ezio, Anne.”

Ezio considers Anne’s naked form. Edward notices, and frowns.

“Ezio,” Anne is saying. “That’s the one kissed Kidd and taught you how to bed a fellow?”

Ezio smiles, delighted. “Clearly you have told her all my best qualities.”

“What?” Edward asks, rubbing his eyes in evident confusion.

“What does it look like to the rest of us when visitors fuck?” Anne continues brightly. “That’s something I’d like to see.”

“ _What_?” Edward asks again, an expression of mild horror dawning on his face. “You want to – you want to _watch_?”

“And join in,” she says, grinning cheekily.

“You have the best friends,” Ezio says fervently, caressing Edward’s naked thigh.

-

“Is Shay nearby?”

Haytham jerks sharply, reaches for the weapons he keeps by the bath, then seems to register who she is. “Aveline!” he splutters, in evident outrage. “What in God’s name are you doing here?”

Good. He isn’t attacking her. They struck a truce for Shay’s sake relatively recently, from Aveline’s perspective; this Haytham looks a little older, but their bargain seems to have held.

Their truce only covers physical attacks, of course. There’s nothing to prevent a little embarrassment.

“You know perfectly well that I can’t control where I go, Grand Master,” Aveline says, innocently.

Haytham sinks lower in the water, arranging his hands very carefully. “You can control where you _stay_. Leave at once.”

“Alas, it seems I can’t.”

“Don’t toy with me, Aveline.”

“It’s difficult to control when I’m distracted, you see.” She rests her chin upon her hand and sighs with overwrought longing. “And it certainly is _distracting_ to have such a magnificent specimen laid out before me.”

Haytham flushes. It’s immensely satisfying. “Leave before I cut your throat.”

“You’d only be cutting your own.”

“It’s looking an increasingly attractive option.”

“We have a mutual friend. Let’s not do anything to make him unhappy.” Aveline leans against the doorframe. “Enjoying your bath?”

“I was, rather, before it was interrupted.”

“I have no intention of interrupting. Don’t let me prevent you.”

Haytham gives her a very flat look. “Mysteriously, it seems to have become rather less relaxing.”

“Then stand up,” Aveline says, “and I can have a proper look at you.”

“Shay has taken the _Morrigan_ for repairs. You’re wasting your time if you linger here.”

Aveline cranes her neck slightly. “I wouldn’t say _wasting_.”

“Aveline,” Haytham says. “Don’t.”

“Don’t look so petrified,” Aveline says, with a laugh. “You must know I’m only twitting you. I mean nothing by it.”

Something strange happens in Haytham’s expression. “Of course.”

-

Altaïr dislikes the chaos of battles – they are dirty, and loud, fast and moving to a rhythm of their own. Altaïr is used to the assassinations he’s been trained on all his life, he is used to stalking his target, and the feeling of power that comes with a well timed kill. He prefers to fight one on one, or at least on his own against a force of guards. Fighting by himself gives him some measure of control over his fights.

A battle is nothing like that, there’s no way to keep track of the big picture, and Altaïr dislikes this feeling of not being in control. He despises knowing that his survival is as dependent on the people around him, on _luck_ , as it is on his own skills.

But even worse than a normal battle is a sea battle. It’s all the mess of war, but it’s also on _water_. Shay has taught Altaïr to swim, but that does not mean he is ready to be on a sinking ship.

Speaking of Shay – Altaïr finds the Templar behind the ship’s wheel, face cast in an expression of intense concentration. Altaïr takes one look at that face and decides it’s better not to interrupt with questions just now.

A stray shot hits the side of the ship near where Altaïr is standing. It rocks him nearly off his feet, but he manages to stay standing, just barely.

The battle continues, and eventually ends. All around the _Morrigan_ , the sea burns with fire from the ships Shay has sunk. Altaïr turns back to his visitor, who is smiling with a kind of relieved, exhausted pride. The expression slips when he gets a good look at Altaïr. “Are you alright?” he asks. “You look a bit green.”

Altaïr bristles. He is not _sea sick_. Absolutely not.

Somehow, Shay seems to understand despite Altaïr’s silence. “It’s alright,” he says. “Fight’s over, we made it. And just think about how much worse it could have been – you would have had a real problem if you dropped in on one of _Edward’s_ ship battles, rather than mine.”

Altaïr tries and fails to hide his shudder. He’s sure that any ship battles Edward finds himself in the middle of must be a real mess.

He manages to console himself with this thought. Slightly. But far _more_ comforting is when Shay turns the ship’s wheel away from the battle and back toward land.

-

“They marooned me,” Edward says, blazing with outrage. “ _Me!_ Don’t they know how much I’ve done for them?”

Aveline raises her eyebrows. “So famously loyal, aren’t they, pirates?”

“We’re a rough crew, but we look after our own,” Edward says. “Or so I thought. Damn!” He aims a kick at a tree trunk. It does little to remedy his situation. “And I’ve been left with no company but the mermaids. Well, one man, but he’s buggered off, and he’s worse than useless anyway.”

“And I don’t suffice as company?”

“You’re one of the mermaids. For all I know, you’re not real.” He shrugs. “Still, might not be so bad if you’re here. There are ways a man and a lady can entertain themselves on an island, you know.”

It’s said in jest, and he expects her to rebuff it with a smile and a roll of her eyes, as she has before. But instead she hesitates and glances away.

“Sorry,” Edward says. “I know you’re Shay’s.”

This, it turns out, is the wrong thing to say. Aveline looks back at him, her eyes alight with anger. “Shay’s, am I?”

“Ah,” Edward says. “You’re not there yet?”

“I don’t appear to _belong_ to Shay at this stage of my life, no,” Aveline says. “I was born into ownership. Don’t put me back there with your tongue so easily.”

It’s an uncomfortable wait until the end of the visit. Maybe being alone on an island isn’t so bad.

-

“Shh,” Connor tells Haytham softly. He’s sitting on his couch, a bundle in his arms and a look of incredulous joy on his face. “You’ll wake him.”

“He can’t hear me, he’s not a visitor.” Haytham nevertheless keeps his voice hushed. It only seems appropriate. “May I see him?”

Connor twitches a corner of blanket away, and Haytham gazes at the baby’s face. “He looks very small,” he says, doubtfully. “Also, rather squashed.”

“He was born only an hour ago,” Connor remonstrates gently. “Doctor White assures me he is healthy.”

“I didn’t realize. I’ve never seen one that young.” Haytham sighs heavily and sits beside his son and grandson.

Connor watches the baby breathe for some time. Haytham watches Connor watching the baby.

“I wonder...” Connor ventures, “would we have turned out differently if we’d had this?” His half shrug seems to encompass himself, his father, the baby.

“No way of telling,” Haytham says sadly. Another long pause. The baby curls his tiny fingers into a fist. “What are you going to name him?”

“Matthew,” Connor whispers.

“I’m surprised you’re not giving him a Mohawk name.”

Connor shakes his head sadly. “His mother is not Kanien’kehá:ka. My people will not count him among them unless he marries in.” He sighs heavily. “Perhaps it’s better this way. My people are hunted down, forced from place to place. Our villages stand empty, and soon there will be none who practice our customs and speak our tongue. Better that he be counted a white man.”

“No,” Haytham insists. “Your people, your customs, they are important to you. Everything that’s important to you, you should share with your son. I always have.”

Connor stares at his father for a long moment. “Would you like to hold him?” he asks, finally.

“I wouldn’t want to take him away from you for even a moment,” Haytham replies stiffly.

“No,” Connor begins. “You can – here – put your arms—” He shuffles closer to Haytham.

“What?” Haytham asks, reaching for Matthew to keep the baby from being jostled. “Connor, what are you...”

Connor clumsily ducks under Haytham’s outstretched arm and leans into him. “Now you and I can both hold him,” he says quietly.

Haytham, surprised, curls his arms around his son and grandson. It’s the first time he can ever recall cuddling Connor. It’s dreadfully awkward, but not so bad after all. “Well, then,” he says, and they stay like that until the end of Haytham’s visit.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know why this says 'chapter by Riona' at the top. I'm just the one posting it; it's by all three of us!

Aveline watches Altaïr for a moment, trying to determine his purpose, but it’s incomprehensible to her. He seems to be running some sort of acrobatic gauntlet around the city, collecting flags and very nearly bowling over innocent passers-by.

It’s an impressive spectacle, certainly, but he’s usually so focused on his work for the Brotherhood. The other people she visits seem to have lives and pursuits of their own, other than poor Desmond, trapped in that device all day. Altaïr, though... at this stage of his life, if he isn’t carrying out an assassination, he’s gathering the information he needs to plan one.

She finds it hard to imagine that this flag-gathering will end in someone’s death.

“What are you up to?” she asks.

“Do not distract me.” Altaïr seizes yet another flag, tucks it beneath his sash, leaps for the next. “He will not speak to me if I am not swift enough.”

The mystery stands, it seems.

Eventually, Altaïr brings his collection of flags to a man: a member of the Brotherhood. They have a terse and unfriendly exchange, and then Altaïr stalks past her, his movements sharp and angry.

“Will you tell me why those flags were so important?” Aveline asks, falling into step beside him.

“It is not your concern.”

“Perhaps not.”

There is a pause. It’s not difficult to see that Altaïr is seething.

“He was sent to give me information,” he bursts out at last, as if a dam within him has been breached.

“And that makes you angry?”

“He refused to give it to me unless I collected those flags,” Altaïr says. “As if I were his performing pet. I am here to kill a man. I am not here for anyone’s _amusement_.”

Which is unfortunate, because Aveline finds this very amusing. She rests a hand against her cheek to hide her smile.

“Say nothing,” Altaïr warns her.

“What would poor Ezio think if he saw you so degraded?”

“I have not been _degraded_ ,” Altaïr growls. “My supposed brother is the one who degrades himself, by playing games when there is work to be done.”

“Think of it as a pleasant diversion,” Aveline suggests. “An excuse to do some of that running around on rooftops you’re so fond of. I realise I’m in no position to judge.”

“I do not take to the rooftops for pleasure.”

“No?”

“It is a matter of discretion. There are people on the streets. The roofs allow me to move unnoticed.”

“The streets are not _forbidden_ ,” Aveline points out. “Crowds hide us; it’s solitude where danger lies. Don’t I hear archers threatening you when you’re on top of buildings?”

Without a word, Altaïr runs for the nearest wall and leaps for a handhold. Perhaps he’s forgotten that escaping a conversation with a visitor is not so simple a matter.

“What on Earth is he doing?” a passing woman mutters. “He’s going to break his neck.”

“Ah, yes,” Aveline calls up to him. “I see now. Very subtle.”

-

Edward finds Shay sitting on a roof, because of course he is. The man may have left the Assassins, but he’s still a visitor, and if there’s anything visitors love, it’s rooftops.

“Ahoy,” Edward greets him amiably, settling down beside Shay to take in the lovely view of... this is New Orleans, right? Well, Shay would hardly be here if it weren’t for Aveline, so that’s one worry gone. Instead of greeting him, Shay just nods pensively. Edward kicks his foot. “You’re moping more than my daughter, and she’s thirteen _and_ about to have a baby brother or sister.”

“She – what?” Shay asks, his absent demeanor snapping into sharper focus.

“Aye, my wife Tessa’s pregnant,” Edward chatters on, heedless of the considering look Shay is giving him. “And I don’t know, I mean, what do I know about babies?”

“No more than I,” Shay says with a little laugh. “Aveline’s to have ours soon.”

Edward claps Shay on the back. “Congratulations, man!” He looks over the edge of the roof. “What are you doing here on top of a church when you could be at home, cozy with Aveline?”

Shay gives him a strained smile. “We’re about to get married.”

Edward grins broadly. “I should have known you wouldn’t wait.”

Shay nods absently. “It’s... complicated. Look... you’ve been married, and I never have. What’s it like?”

Edward snorts. “You’ve been with Aveline for _decades_.”

“That’s different,” Shay insists. “We were visiting only, until a few months ago. What if... what if everything changes?”

“How would it?” Edward asks. “You can wake up beside her every morning. Isn’t that what you want?”

“Yes,” Shay says with complete certainty. “But I’m a Templar, she’s an Assassin. Before, we each had time to carry out our missions without the other one... seeing, I guess.” He frowns. “That makes it sound like something shameful. I mean... what if she’s sent to stop me again? How do we do that, and go home to our house and our bed and our children? What if she’s told to kill me?”

Edward makes a rude noise. “That’s never going to happen,” he says positively. “They can tell her all they like, but she won’t do it.” He hugs Shay. “You’ve got the worst wedding jitters I’ve ever seen. And it’s ridiculous, because I’ve never seen two people more in love.”

“Really?”

“Really. Now get off this roof and go get married.”

-

Connor knows that Aveline can be as deadly in a dress at a party as she is in her robes on the rooftops. It is not a skill he had ever thought he would envy, but then Connor has never been forced to attend one of Aveline’s parties before now. It is every bit as terrible as he had expected, but Aveline is a friend, and she’s right that this is the best chance he’ll have to observe his target before mounting an attack.

So, for an interminable half hour, Connor wanders through the party, trying not to feel so out of place, or so tall, or so...

This isn’t his kind of party, and eventually Connor realizes he’s learned everything he can of his target, and makes a beeline for the door. He probably looks like he’s running away – he does not care at all.

“Leaving so soon?”

Connor freezes with his hand on the doorknob, and half turns back to look at Aveline. She’s dressed in her slave disguise, so this isn’t the Aveline that had suggested Connor come to the party in the first place, she’s a visiting Aveline. Probably from the future, because the amusement on her face makes it look like she knows exactly when and where she is.

“You don’t have to laugh,” Connor says, and he doesn’t mean to but the words are pleading and _sad_.

To her credit, Aveline sobers at once. “I’m sorry, Connor. I shouldn’t have laughed. It’s just—”

“I look ridiculous.”

“No! Never, Connor.”

“I _feel_ ridiculous. This isn’t...” He takes a deep breath. “I came to find out more about my target, and I did that. Now I’m leaving.”

“I’ll come with you,” Aveline says, which would be a much kinder offer if she wasn’t literally tied to him by visiting. Still, Connor appreciates her company. They leave the party behind, and start to head toward the inn where Connor prefers to stay while in the city. The two of them are arguing whether or not Connor needs to be more social and try to make new friends when a voice interrupts them.

“Are you talking to yourself?”

Both of them stop where they are, and this time when Connor turns he sees a stranger. A woman, probably around his own age, not conventionally attractive but after the party full of stiff, formal men and women in their empty finery, she looks alive in a way Connor can’t help but appreciate.

“Connor,” Aveline says, but then she stops, an odd expression on her face.

“I’m not talking to myself,” Connor says. “I was just...”

He trails off, unable to think of a decent excuse for talking to an invisible person.

The woman grins. “Maybe you would enjoy speaking with me more than speaking with yourself?” He stares at her, uncertain, and she adds, “I haven’t eaten yet.”

And something makes him nod. “I’m Connor,” he says.

“Emily.”

Behind Connor, Aveline sighs. As he starts to walk off with Emily, Aveline gives him a quick, unexpected hug. “I’m sorry,” she says.

Connor doesn’t say anything, because he hates talking to visitors when there are other people around, but he gives Aveline a look of absolute confusion.

“If I could spare you the pain,” she says. “I would.”

Well, that doesn’t make any sense at all. Aveline’s visit ends not long after that, and as she fades, Connor shakes off his confusion and turns his attention back to Emily. She’s not a bad person to spend an evening with, it turns out.

Connor thinks he probably wouldn’t mind seeing her again.

-

Altaïr is in a foul mood, and the arrival of one of the phantoms that haunt him incessantly seems unlikely to improve it. Particularly as the phantom in question is Edward, the false Assassin.

“Stay still and silent, if you cannot leave,” Altaïr commands him. “I am busy.”

“You’re always busy,” Edward says. “Ever hear of taking time for yourself? What are you busy doing?”

“Studying maps. Making plans that are of no concern to those who wear our robes falsely.”

“Oh, come on. You’re in a different time; what am I going to do?”

Altaïr ignores him.

Edward entirely ignores his request for quiet, unsurprisingly. But he does stop talking at last when Altaïr goes through the doorway to present his plan to Malik. Altaïr almost wishes he would keep prattling; Malik is still burning with anger and spite, and a distraction from his barbs would be welcome.

“Bad blood there,” Edward observes at last, when Altaïr has withdrawn to the roof of the bureau.

“Malik,” Altaïr says. “He is my brother; he was my friend. Now he will not speak to me.” It’s more than he meant to share, but dwelling on their conversation has left him unguarded.

“Seems to me he was speaking enough,” Edward says. “You might not have liked what he was saying, but the words were there.”

“What difference does it make?”

“Silence and anger? There’s a difference. Silence means he’s given up on you. If he’s snapping at you, he’s still got something he wants you to hear.”

Altaïr looks at him warily. His acquaintance with Edward has been short, but he has a distinct sense that this is not a man from whom to take advice.

“I’ve got a friend,” Edward says. “Name of Kidd. He’s furious with me half the time. Means our friendship’s still alive. If I didn’t mean something to him, he’d stop caring.”

“My friendships are not yours,” Altaïr says. “I told you to stay silent.”

Edward shrugs.

Malik speaks to Altaïr because he has to; they are both doing work for the Brotherhood. And yet Altaïr finds himself repeating Malik’s words in his mind now, trying to look past the scorn in his voice and see what he’s really saying.

Their connection is dead. He’s wasting his time with hope. He should never have listened to Edward; the man has nothing worthwhile to say, and this ‘visiting’ business has nothing worthwhile to offer.

-

“Grandkids,” Desmond says, when he pops in on a visit, and is immediately introduced to the tiny boy in Shay’s arms. “Wow.”

“He’s Philippe’s son,” Shay says.

Desmond smiles, a little flickering motion that doesn’t reach his eyes. “It’s weird,” he says. “I just saw you yesterday, and Edward was teasing you about not realizing Aveline liked you. Now you’re having grandkids together.”

Shay’s smile, unlike Desmond’s, is genuine – that had been an _awfully_ long time ago. But all he says is, “That sounds like Edward.”

“Yeah,” Desmond agrees. Silence falls between them. Shay is understandably distracted by his grandson, and Desmond seems lost in thought. The baby yawns, and Shay smiles reflexively.

“Shay?” Desmond says, after a minute. His voice is barely a whisper, a little apologetic noise.

“Yeah?”

“Can I...” he gestures wordlessly at the newborn, and Shay nods before handing him over. He trusts Desmond implicitly, as he trusts all his visitors. His grandson will be safe.

“He’s heavy,” Desmond says, with some surprise. “I didn’t expect that.” And then he peers down at the baby’s face, studying him with an intensity that’s almost unnerving.

“Desmond?” Shay says.

“ _You’re_ not real,” Desmond says. “Aveline’s not real. And I can _maybe_ understand my brain making you up but I just can’t figure out why I’d be hallucinating this whole big family for you two.”

Shay smiles, sadly. “Have you thought that maybe we’re not hallucinations?” he asks.

Desmond sighs like a man with the weight of the world on his shoulders. Shay doesn’t push any farther.

“This baby probably never even existed!” Desmond says instead. “I think maybe I just... really want a family. Sometimes I think maybe my subconscious is just giving all my visitors these happy families because I’m so tired of being alone. I mean, you’re all happy. You’re married, you have kids, and I think I _want_ that but I can’t have it, so like some part of my brain is giving it all to you... I don’t know.” He hands the child back, and stands there anxiously wringing his hands. “Don’t tell anyone?”

And Shay promises he won’t.

-

Haytham looks up to see his father smiling down at him, and his breath catches. Years, nay, decades of visiting have allowed him to get to know his father as a flawed man, a complex human, but seeing his father like _that_ , middle-aged and dressed in the silly black shirt with the gold threads running through it – well, that’s one of the last treasured memories Haytham has of his childhood. Suddenly he feels like a little boy again, wanting to throw himself into his father’s arms for a hug.

But because he’s Haytham Kenway, all he says instead is, “You may dispense with calling me Hat Man. We both know you know who I am.”

Edward sits on the desk, and Haytham smothers a sigh. “Haytham, is something bothering you?” Edward asks. “You seem extra prickly.”

Haytham actually does sigh this time; he’ll just upset his father by saying this, he’s sure. “I fear I’m nearing the end of my life.”

Edward nods, surprisingly calm. “I, too. Your tenth birthday is next week, and – well – I’ve heard that’s the end for me.”

“I haven’t seen Connor, apart from visits, in so long, and I... I feel like I’m just waiting for him to—” Haytham bites his tongue. Perhaps his father doesn’t know. He hopes he doesn’t know.

Edward, though, is nodding. “I visited him. After.” He waves one hand in an unreadable gesture. “I saw.” The sorrow in his voice is almost palpable.

“Will it hurt?” Haytham can’t stop himself from asking.

“No. I mean... maybe. Maybe dying always hurts. You’d think I’d know, as many as I’ve killed. But... no, I don’t think it’ll hurt.” Edward looks helplessly at his son.

“That’s...” Haytham doesn’t know what to say. “That’s a relief, at least.”

“What about me?” Edward asks in a rush. “When I die. Do you know? Will it hurt?”

Haytham can’t meet his father’s eyes. “Yes,” he mumbles. “I think it will.”

“Oh.” Edward seems to deflate. “And you’ll _see_ it. I don’t want that at all.”

“I’ll live,” Haytham assures him, for what it’s worth.

“I know _that_ ,” Edward tells him, smiling. “That’s the only good thing that’ll come out of... whatever happens.”

Haytham makes a small movement in Edward’s direction, and Edward slides off the desk, grabs him, and pulls him into a big hug. And they stand there like that, father and son, until Edward’s visit ends.

-

“You seem troubled, Desmond,” Ezio observes. “Try to enjoy your time away from that machine. You are among friends.”

Desmond glances around. Ezio finds this gathering of all his visitors in his own room calming, but it seems to be setting Desmond on edge.

“Is the problem your belief that we are not real?” Ezio asks. “Many apparitions are more troubling than one?”

“It’s not that,” Desmond says. “It’s just...” He hesitates. “When we’re all in one place like this, it usually means one of us is about to die. Doesn’t it?”

Does it? Ezio has yet to see the death of a visitor. It’s an unpleasant prospect to consider.

“The one being visited is the one to die, I take it,” Ezio says. “Which would be me. You have seen my life in your Animus; does it end here?”

Desmond visibly relaxes. “I guess not.”

“I knew it,” Ezio says, with a smile. “I have already met an older version of myself, after all. Very much alive. Very vigorous.”

“Let’s not go back over that ground, if you don’t mind,” Haytham cuts in, as Desmond winces. “It was a moment in my life I’d prefer to see forgotten. If spending time with my son means running the risk of encountering multiple Ezii, I’m inclined to cut ties entirely.”

“Father,” Connor says.

“I envy those of you who can meet yourselves more often than I,” Ezio says. “And you do not take advantage of it!”

Shay coughs and looks away.

An interesting response. Ezio is about to question him, but Aveline steps in first.

“Ah, Monsieur Cormac, you have something to tell us?

Shay flushes. “Nothing comes to mind.”

Edward snorts. “Don’t act like you don’t know about it, Aveline. I’ve dropped in on it. You three made for quite a show.”

“You _three?_ ” Aveline echoes.

Ezio suppresses a sigh. This is a young Aveline, from before her relationship with Shay. Most of them have the sense not to allude to it.

Edward stands frozen for a moment, and then he finds his voice. “Shay and Shay and... Shay.”

“Ta, Edward,” Shay mutters. “Always wanted present company to think of me as the sort of man who’d sleep with two of myself.”

Haytham seems oddly frozen, staring at Shay. It must be an interesting picture to have of his subordinate.

“I would certainly sleep with two of myself, Shay, given the chance,” Ezio says. “Or indeed two of you. You are in good company.”

Shay gives him an incredulous glance. “Or some sort of company, at least.”

“There are other things to speak of, surely,” Connor says.

Shay drums his fingers on the bracer at his wrist for a moment, frowning. Looks again at Ezio. “Two of _me_ , did you say?”

Connor sighs.

“You are a handsome man,” Ezio says. “Should I apologise for noticing?”

“You’ve evidently noticed it yourself, Shay, if the tales Edward is telling are true,” Aveline puts in.

“No, it wasn’t—” Shay shakes his head. “It wasn’t like that.”

“What was it like?”

“You know, Connor’s right,” Shay says. “Let’s talk of things other than Ezio’s depravity. And mine, apparently.”

“Is it truly so depraved?” Ezio asks. “Everything is permitted, they say.”

“Oh, no,” Edward says. “No, no, no. You don’t get to use that as an excuse if I can’t.”

Ezio ignores Edward; it tends to be the wisest course of action. “For example, as we all happen to be in one place, why don’t we mark the occasion? I have slept with Edward already, of course, but I have not had the pleasure of knowing the rest of you.”

“Oh, God,” Desmond says. “Aveline, can you teach me that getting-out-of-a-visit thing you can do? Like, _now?_ ”

“Yes,” Haytham says, “I think a few of us would be interested in those lessons. Connor?”

“But I would have to demonstrate,” Aveline says, with exaggerated reluctance. Ezio would like to think it unfeigned. “And then how would I return before things became interesting?”

“Aveline,” Shay says, in a tone of deep exasperation, and then he freezes, evidently remembering that she doesn’t yet know what their relationship will be. 

“Aveline can’t leave,” Edward objects. “It’d just be me and Ezio and Shay. What sort of orgy is that?”

“Why are you assuming _I’d_ be involved?” Shay asks.

“You also assume that I would not,” Altaïr points out.

There’s a brief silence.

“If this is a joke, Mentor,” Ezio says, “it is a cruel one. Do not give a man hope and snatch it away.”

Altaïr smirks. “My sense of humour has always tended to the cruel, I have been told. Enjoy yourself with those who are willing.”

Ezio sighs deeply. “Alas, I find the mood has left me.”

-

He doesn’t know his name – doesn’t know where he is, or when, or why. But he has to be here, he can’t get out of his head (no matter how hard he tries, no matter how long he sits there with his hands pressed to his head, pushing, _pushing_ like he can just shove himself right out of this body that doesn’t seem to fit).

So he sits, and shakes, and tries to force the shreds of his mind into... into being _someone_. But it’s like holding water in his bare hands, and his thoughts trickle away from him no matter how hard he tries to hold on—

“Desmond—”

“Ow,” he whispers. Nothing really hurts, but he doesn’t have a word for the way his head is falling apart.

“It’s, ah—” He hears a nervous cough, a clearing of the throat, and then a shift of someone settling next to him. “It’s Haytham.”

The name is too much to understand, right now. It means something different to all the people in his head and he _can’t_ —

“Ow,” he whispers again, or tries to. His mouth moves but no sound comes out, he’s too fragmented, broken into too many pieces. It’s hard to focus on – anything. Anything at all.

Then he feels a hand on his, holding it tight. For a long time (it feels long, anyway, but it’s hard to keep track). And it’s easy to focus on that, easy to hold on tight and not let go. Easy to focus on breathing in, breathing out – the chaos in his mind doesn’t fade, but it dims a little. He holds Haytham’s hand, tight, tight, _tight_ , and feels safe.


End file.
